Month: May 2001

nothing special just a note I still have love for this place where I come and write a note or two, a poem, a set of paragraphs to say I'm still alive if you care and in certain ways happy, glad, even ecstatic I've got good people in my life at least some of them …

another one of these Sunday nights. I dread Monday mornings. it's more of the same bullshit you have to put up with. my spell checker is questioning my usage of the word bullshit now. I have to assure it it has its place. this isn't some business template. wrists are sore as I write this. …

learning sign language is like learning keyboard shortcuts. I just realized that. it was a strange 8 hours. people live in such fear because of money. sure, if you have it, you pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, or say that this is an over-reaction, but lose yours too and it becomes painfully …

defective mechanisms. this is the first part to write. from the factory came a package, and inside a disappointment. some are born defective children, can't hear or see, can't walk, can't look normal, can't fit in. defective parts, somehow, someway. good parts go bad. from bad decisions good times turn sour. a rose received lasts …

reading about Chuck Palahniuk, a profile of him in Poets&Writers. he was the one that wrote Fight Club, Survivor, and Invisible Monsters. it's always inspiring to read about another writer rising up out of troubles and getting clearer through writing. it is not about publishing a damn thing, but the act of writing in the …

it is my fault not enough it is my damn fault I know sacrifice the time like this book shelf in the sway correct me and you're wrong I will tell you why I'm from another realm of something whatever it is it's just something else besides your blueprint here is where we can eat …

it is saturday but asthma hits and forces me up for raspberry tea. looking at this picture of Radhakunda. the sun is up now and everything is beautiful. day is started; if I go back to bed, it's only for an hour or so. nothing much to write because I am feeling small minded. but …

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A rusted bell rattled and clapped deep inside the kitchen phone. Sabina gave Mother a look, stood up, and stepped in. It was Dr. Aikenson. Sabina leaned against the wall, twirling her right index finger around and in through the long, yellow-stained cord. Aikenson proceeded with his prognosis: “I’m afraid that…”